miles of the northern suburb of London. At home we sat and talked
quietly of old times, or played at backgammon and dominoes--and so, for
a few happy days, led the peaceful unadventurous life which was good for
me. When the day of the dinner arrived, I felt restored to my customary
health. I was ready again, and eager again, for the introduction to Lady
Clarinda and the discovery of Mrs. Beauly.

Benjamin looked a little sadly at my flushed face as we drove to Major
Fitz-David's house.

"Ah, my dear," he said, in his simple way, "I see you are well again!
You have had enough of our quiet life already."

My recollection of events and persons, in general, at the dinner-party,
is singularly indistinct.

I remember that we were very merry, and as easy and familiar with one
another as if we had been old friends. I remember that Madame Mirliflore
was unapproachably superior to the other women present, in the perfect
beauty of her dress, and in the ample justice which she did to the
luxurious dinner set before us. I remember the Major's young prima
donna, more round-eyed, more overdressed, more shrill and strident as
the coming "Queen of Song," than ever. I remember the Major himself,
always kissing our hands, always luring us to indulge in dainty dishes
and drinks, always making love, always detecting resemblances between
us, always "under the charm," and never once out of his character
as elderly Don Juan from the beginning of the evening to the end.
I remember dear old Benjamin, completely bewildered, shrinking into
corners, blushing when he was personally drawn into the conversation,
frightened at Madame Mirliflore, bashful with Lady Clarinda, submissive
to the Major, suffering under the music, and from the bottom of his
honest old heart wishing himself home again. And there, as to the
members of that cheerful little gathering, my memory finds its
limits--with one exception. The appearance of Lady Clarinda is as
present to me as if I had met her yesterday; and of the memorable
conversation which we two held together privately, toward the close of
the evening, it is no exaggeration to say that I can still call to mind
almost every word.

I see her dress, I hear her voice again, while I write.

She was attired, I remember, with that extreme assumption of simplicity
which always defeats its own end by irresistibly suggesting art. She
wore plain white muslin, over white silk, without trimming or ornament
of any kind. He